


Piecing Together An Imperfect Archive

by Kiraly



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Fantasy, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 16:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly
Summary: On the first morning of the new year, a scribe opens her notes to start recording. But someone with her handwriting has already written it.





	Piecing Together An Imperfect Archive

I’m always the first person in the Scriptorium on New Year’s morning. It’s more or less a tradition—a personal one, since the common practice is to show up late and hungover from the Old Year’s festivities. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a night of wine and wishes as much as anyone. But if I’m going to ask the Well for success in the upcoming year, I can’t expect to get it by staying in bed all day.

Besides, I like being the first to arrive. There’s something thrilling about opening the records book and writing the first date of the new year. The official record comes later, of course—after we scribes have spent the day at meetings and court functions, dutifully writing down the day’s events, the archivists compile them into something usable. They’re the ones who get to fill in the official records. Their words become history.

One day, my words will be as important. For now I must content myself with writing the date.

But when I turn the records book to today’s page, there’s already something written there. 

_ Rule of Monarch Nomlas, Year 34. The Year Forgotten. Day One.  _

The words are right. Last night the Monarch drank from the Well and spoke the new year’s name. I was going to be the first to record it, but someone else got here first. 

Except, when I read the words again, I see that they’re written in my handwriting. 

The entry itself is in an archivist’s hand, but I would recognize my own writing anywhere. Shaking my head, I turn the page.

_ Rule of Monarch Nomlas, Year 34. The Year Forgotten. Day Two.  _ Another entry filled in, events recorded as though they’ve already happened. I turn the page over again, and then a whole section of pages. All of them are filled, properly dated and initialed as they should be. But they  _ can’t  _ be. It’s impossible to tell the future, and these days haven’t happened yet. Have they?

My confusion only grows as I abandon the records book for the stack of papers on my own desk. All my notes are where they should be, but the dates are wrong—the newest entry is for  _ Rule of Monarch Nomlas, Year 34, The Year Forgotten, Old Year’s End.  _ I find the notes I remember writing yesterday—Year 33, Old Year’s End—filed away behind a year’s worth of other notes. With shaking hands, I pull out that entry and the one for today.

_ Rule of Monarch Nomlas, Year 33. The Year of Three Floods. Old Year’s End. _

_ Everyone is excited for the festivities tonight. No one is getting much work done, but on a feast day that’s not surprising. There are no meetings to record, and the nobles will spend all day getting dressed. Aphra and Cinna have interviewed the body servants about who is wearing what, and I got a copy of the menu from the kitchens. With any luck, we can have those records filed away before the celebration starts, and only have the events of the feast to write tomorrow.  _

_ Cinna has spent the last half an hour making fun of what the Fourth Heir is wearing to the feast. Aphra has just suggested Cinna should dress the Fourth Heir herself if she feels so strongly about it. I should probably step in before someone draws blood. _

My own notes are often like this—peppered with the goings-on of the other scribes. They might not be important enough for the official records book, but that’s not the point. Years from now I’ll be able to look at this entry and laugh with Cinna about the Fourth Heir’s outfit, and that’s important enough for me.

The entry for today doesn’t look much different. 

_ Year of the Forgotten. What does that mean? I’m sure the court will be alive with speculation once everyone has recovered from the Old Year’s festivities. For now it’s just me in the Scriptorium, starting the new year off right.  _

_ I think this could be the year I make archivist. That’s what I asked the Well for, of course, when I poured out my wine for a wish. But wish or no wish, I intend to act like someone who’s worthy of the job. So no hangover for me. _

_ Once Cinna gets here I will ask her to make the rounds of the body servants again. Obviously the details of who-slept-with-who won’t go in the official record, but it helps to have that information in case of any surprises down the line... _

I push the page away. It reads like something I wrote. It  _ looks  _ like something I wrote, from the way I slant my uprights to the way I cross my ‘t’s. And I didn’t tell anyone what I wished for. But I also didn’t write this. Someone must be playing a prank on me—someone with a tricky mind, someone who knows me well enough to mimic my handwriting and manner of expression. Someone like Cinna or Aphra or Iris, or—no. It has to be one of the other scribes.

So when Aphra and Iris drag themselves in an hour later, I greet them with a thick stack of the forged notes and a thin smile. “Up late last night?” I ask.

Iris nods and pillows her head on her arms. Her hair bears evidence of a wild night—someone has chopped off half of it with a blunt knife, or so I assume based on how uneven it is. Aphra blinks at me. “Ugh. Quill, my head hurts too much for your morning person routine.” She rubs her eyes. “Why can’t you just be hungover like the rest of us?”

In answer, I drop the stack of paper on Aphra’s desk. Both of them flinch at the noise. “Hungover, eh? Explain this, then.”

Aphra picks up the top page. “What am I supposed to explain? You’ve already written today’s entry in your weird journal thing. Overachiever.” 

My patience runs out. “I didn’t write it!” I take the paper from Aphra’s hand and point to the next one. “Or that! Or  _ any  _ of it! Someone played a prank on me.”

Iris sifts through the pages. “Odd kind of prank,” she comments. “I thought this was bad enough,” she gestures to her hair, “but this is...dedication.” Aphra and I both nod. We write for a living; we know how long something like this would take.

“That not all,” I say. “They did it in the official records book, too. In  _ my handwriting.”  _

They both look startled at that. Pranks are one thing. Messing with the official records could get us all fired. 

“Cinna?” Iris suggests, hesitant. “I thought she might have done my hair, but if she was busy with all this…” 

“Even Cinna isn’t  _ that  _ stupid,” Aphra says. “Forging Quill’s writing? Maybe. But the archivist’s? She’d have to be—”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish, because just then the door bursts open and Cinna arrives.

“QUILLIAN!” 

I jump and knock into the desk, sending papers flying. “Augh! Cinna, what—”

“No!” Cinna always walks like she’s on her way to a fist fight. From the look on her face, I’m the one who’s about to get punched. “Don’t you dare act all innocent! How did you manage this? What did you  _ put  _ in my drink?” Her arms wave to emphasize her point, but I am distracted from her questions by the color of her sleeves.

“Where did you get a purple robe?” It’s not just any purple, either—minor nobles can afford a lavender tunic or some violet embroidery. But I’ve never seen this old-wine shade on anyone but royalty. 

A closer look reveals more oddities in Cinna’s appearance. The robe, despite its obvious value, is more suited to the bedchamber than the scriptorium. Her hair, usually pinned up in neat braids, falls in disheveled dark waves past her shoulders. And on her finger—

“Why don’t  _ you  _ tell  _ me,”  _ Cinna spits, thrusting her hand at my face. I flinch, but she doesn’t hit me. “Where does one get a purple robe to play a prank like this? How does one get a  _ royal signet ring  _ on someone’s hand, Quill?” The gold glints against her skin, and there’s no mistaking the delicate lines of the Tree and the Well. “What did you  _ put in my drink  _ to get me in that one’s bed, and to make me forget it?!”

“You’re not making sense,” I say, stepping back. Nothing is making sense. Someone writing false records, someone giving Iris a bad haircut, someone making Cinna—do something. “Whose bed?”

“Oh, like you don’t know,” she growls, but some of the certainty slips from her face. “What are you three doing, anyway? What has Iris done to her hair? It’s hideous.”

_ “Thanks,”  _ Iris mutters, but I ignore that and gather up the scattered papers. 

“We were trying,” I say, holding one out to Cinna, “To figure out who wrote these.”

Cinna takes the page and reads it, one eyebrow arched. “Uh, you did, obviously. That’s your handwriting, Quill.”

“But I  _ didn’t.”  _ I pass her another page, and another. “Look. All of this looks like my writing, but I  _ don’t remember writing it.  _ It’s all for the future! Why would I do that?”

“The future?” Cinna says. She reads through the pages. “Odd. How far ahead?”

“My notes have a whole year,” I say. “Though I didn’t check the official records.”

Aphra hauls herself to her feet and crosses to the book. “A year,” she confirms. “This is the  _ weirdest  _ prank.”

I’m inclined to agree with her, and starting to think that no one in this room is the source of it. “It doesn’t make sense,” I say. “First someone falsifies a whole year’s worth of records—including scribe notes—and forges my handwriting in the process.” I pull out a fresh sheet of paper and write this down. “Someone also gives Iris a truly unfortunate—sorry, Iris—haircut. And spikes Cinna’s drink so she ends up dressed like  _ that  _ and wakes up in—whose bed was it, Cinna?”

Someone laughs from the door. “Who else?”

All of us turn to stare. There are two people standing in the doorway—though “standing” is the wrong word.  _ Draped  _ would be more accurate for the first person; despite the sharp cut of her tunic and the neat lines of her close-cropped hair, she always manages to look like grace embodied. Behind her, her companion is not standing so much as hovering. They look as though they are afraid to enter the room lest one of us bites them. From the way Cinna growls beside me, that is no idle fear.

“Hello, Smudge,” I say, greeting our cautious guest first. And then, because I have to, “Reed. You know something we don’t?”

Reed saunters into the scriptorium like she owns the place. She doesn’t, even if she keeps exalted company. “Oh, I just thought your question was too obvious to need an answer, Quillian. Who else would need an actual curse to get Cinnabar into their bed?” She makes a sweeping gesture at her companion, who looks as though they’d like the floor to swallow them. “Their highness Theophili, first of their name and fourth in line to the throne. Phee, may I present the royal scribblers?” 

Well. That certainly explains Cinna’s bad mood. I catch her arm before she can do something stupid with it, like hitting Reed. Much as we’d all love to see that, scribes can’t punch assistant spymasters without consequences.

“Congratulations, you can recite your cousin’s royal address without someone whispering it in your ear,” Aphra says. “What do you want, Reed? And why are you dragging Smudge into it?”

No amount of fancy clothes—which are just as fine as Cinna’s robe, and look almost as hastily flung on—can make Fourth Heir Theophili look anything other than common as dirt. Especially since they  _ were  _ as common as the rest of us until a year ago, when the old Fourth heir died in an accident and someone went digging for a new one. Official or not, we do keep records of  _ everything.  _

“Don’t you know? Their highness can’t be dragged anywhere, they must walk in a manner befitting royalty,” Cinna says. “And I see the elocution lessons are paying off. They don’t speak at all now. Too good for us.”

“I, ah—” It shouldn’t be possible for someone’s ears to turn so red, but the Fourth Heir manages.

“Oh, leave off, Cinna,” I say. It’s not Phee’s fault they got outed as the Monarch’s blood. Nor is it their fault that Cinna was head-over-heels for them before all that happened, when they were just another scribe with a habit of getting ink on their face. “I know you woke up on the wrong side of someone else’s bed this morning, but we have bigger problems.” I turn to Reed. “Back to Aphra’s question. Why are you here?”

“Ah, Quillian. Always business, no pleasure. A shame.” She winks, and laughs when I scowl at her. “Actually, I  _ did  _ have something I wanted you to look at. It should properly be a job for an archivist, but since I don’t see one I suppose you’ll have to do.” She waves a roll of parchment vaguely in my direction. 

I grit my teeth. Assistant spymasters can’t just stroll in and demand the help of an archivist. Technically, they can’t demand anything of scribes, either, but Reed knows my curiosity too well. And if she really wanted to, she could make Phee use their royal imperative, which would be embarrassing for everyone. “Give it here.”

“So impatient.” Reed hands the scroll over. As I unroll it, she says, “Normally I’d have Cinnabar read it, since she does have seniority. And of course their highness has the proper training, but they’re out of practice...and really, the two of them shouldn’t be the ones to do this."

I unroll the scroll. “Do what, Reed?” I don’t want to rise to their bait, but I’m getting tired of talking in circles.

“We just need a second opinion,” Phee blurts out. They blush more when we all stare at them, but they keep going. “To make sure it’s...authentic. I can’t spot any signs of forgery, but...like Reed said, I’m out of practice.”

I turn my attention back to the paper and immediately see what they mean. Official documents like this are technically an archivist’s business, but they’re tedious, so usually they make a scribe write it up. I can usually tell—from the ink and the seal and the tooth of the parchment under their fingers—if a document has been altered. I check all of those things and carefully read the words to spot any errors. I find nothing.

“Do you remember signing this?” I ask. The way this morning is going, I already suspect the answer before Phee gives it.

“No.”

“And you?” 

Cinna is scowling at the ceiling, pointedly not looking in Phee’s direction. “Of course not.”

I set the parchment down and give Reed a long, hard stare. 

“Well?” she asks, after a long moment.

“It appears to be genuine. I guess we can congratulate Cinna and Smudge on their marriage.”

I can practically hear the steam coming out of Cinna’s ears and feel the blush radiating off her royal spouse. I can  _ definitely  _ hear Iris gasp, and Aphra fall out of her chair laughing. But I keep my attention focused on Reed. She doesn’t seem surprised at all. “Tell me again,” I say, “what you said about a curse.”

**Author's Note:**

> So there's a writing challenge going on over on [HitRecord](https://hitrecord.org/challenges/3858076) \- as part of the "Fearless Storytelling" project, we've been challenged to write a short story on the prompt: "What if everyone in the world lost a year of memories . . . the same year?" It can be any length, but my idea completely got away from me (plus I was on vacation for most of the week) so there's no way I would be able to finish before the deadline. Instead, I'm posting the first part of it here and on HitRecord, so that way I can post the rest here even after the writing challenge is over.


End file.
